Friday Night Lights (T'Challa x-reader)
by SociopathicAngel
Summary: Despite being a super genius, he wasn't stuck up or high and mighty. Not at all. He never flaunted his brainpower, never seemed to look down on others. He never bragged and he always helped others without being asked. With his brain, money, and looks, he could have had the entire school in the palm of his hand, but he just… didn't. He was fascinating.


**(A/N: Okay, so some of you may not know that I have never read the actual Marvel comics. I am, however, a huge nerd for MCU. In the MCU, T'Challa does not have a last name, which I feel like is kind of necessary for a high school AU. It would be weird if the kid just didn't have a last name! So, I did a little research and decided to use a last name that they used in one of the comic universes: Udaku. Please don't burn me at the stake if this is somehow wrong! Also, the first song in the marching band show is the Captain America march from Captain America: The First Avenger. Enjoy!)**

T'Challa Udaku isn't afraid of anything.

He's faced down the toughest school bullies. He's messes with highly explosive chemicals on an almost daily basis. He's even stood up to the principal, Mr. Fury, when he tried to accuse one of T'Challa's best friends of filling his office with water-filled paper cups.

Tony _had_ been the culprit, of course, but that isn't the point. The one-eyed man can be downright terrifying when he wants to be.

Not as terrifying as what he's being asked to do now, however.

"No," T'Challa says for what seems like the thirtieth time.

"Come on, why not?" Tony whines. "It's just one little bottle."

"Tony, leave him alone," Bruce admonishes him, not even bothering to look up from his textbook. T'Challa had invited the two over to study for a huge chemistry test tomorrow, but all Tony had done in the half hour that he'd been there was try and get T'Challa to find the key to the liquor cabinet.

"Do you even realize what my dad would do if he found out? I'd probably be dead within the hour!" T'Challa pales at the thought.

"I'm sorry, where's your dad? Oh yeah, not here! Dude, he's going to be gone for, like, another week. There's no way he could find out if you're careful."

"No," T'Challa repeats for the thirty-first time. His dad, the owner of an extremely successful mining company, is currently away on a business trip, leaving the entire house (read: mansion) completely empty, except for T'Challa. When his father is there, the place seems to be full of life, but when he's away it's an empty shell, sapped of all its former color and beauty. Needless to say, he's been spending as much time with his friends as he can in order to fill the void. He can only imagine how Tony feels, seeing as his house is just as large and almost constantly empty. Bruce's house is much, much smaller than those of the other two boys, but the void and loneliness is almost palpable in the small apartment. Both geniuses are emancipated minors and T'Challa can't understand how they deal with the empty homes. He considers it a small wonder that they aren't constantly clamoring to get out of their respective residences.

" _Fine_ ," Tony relents, huffing as he plops down on the couch next to Bruce. "Then can we at least do something _fun_? We're all prodigies with genious-level IQ's, remember? If we can't ace a simple high-school-level chem test without studying, then I'm pretty sure that we deserve to get our titles revoked."

"Remember the last time you said that?" Bruce reminds him, still not looking up from his textbook as he calmly turns the page. "You ended up bombing the test."

"That was a _German_ test, remember? If I even need to actually speak German, I'll invent an app or a gadget or something to do it for me."

T'Challa rolls his eyes and turns them back to the book in front of him as Tony huffs and picks up a remote, surfing through the channels on the seventy-two-inch flat screen in front of the couch. As T'Challa becomes increasingly bored, his mind begins to wander away from the molecules and reactions in front of him. Suddenly, an idea pops into his head, making him slowly grin and lift his head to look at Tony, who sees this and promptly begins to sweat.

"What? What's going on?" he asks nervously, narrowing his eyes at his friend as he closes his book and sets it down on the table next to his arm chair.

"I have an idea," T'Challa says elusively, enjoying his friend's discomfort as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Bruce finally looks up, his curiosity piqued.

"What?" Tony panics, still not liking T'Challa's grin, but interested all the same.

"You seem pretty confident that you're going to ace this," T'Challa states.

Tony scoffs. "Wonderful deductive reasoning, Matlock. Of _course_ I'm going to ace it! It's a _chemistry_ test!" He throws out his hands dramatically, flailing a gesture towards T'Challa's textbook.

T'Challa nods thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he pretends to think that over. "Ok. Then let's make a bet." The grin pops back into place. Bruce rolls his eyes and sighs, already seeing where this is going with the near prophetic skill that comes with being the level-headed friend.

"What are the terms?" Tony asks, smirking back. Now _this_ is his kind of fun.

"If you get a _single_ question wrong on the test, I get to give you a dare and you have to do it."

"And if I get them all right?" he asks, raising a single questioning eyebrow.

T'Challa sits back and shrugs. "Well, then you get to give me a dare."

"And you _have_ to do it?" Tony prompts. He's not letting a single loophole by him.

T'Challa sighs. "Yes, I suppose I will."

Tony's smirk is replaced by a shit-eating grin. "You're on."

Bruce signs heavily and returns to his book. Just because his friends are being fools doesn't mean that he has to jump off the cliff as well.

"Shit."

Tony grins ask he holds the paper in front of T'Challa's dismayed face.

"Read it and weep," Tony gloats as he flaunts his perfect grade on the outskirts of the crowded school hallway. "Actually, no. Don't do that. You might get snot on my shoes." He retracts the paper quickly and wrinkles his nose in theatrical disgust.

"You should have known that you would lose," Bruce sighs to T'Challa in dismay. "Tony knows stuff about chemistry that even our _teachers_ don't know."

T'Challa nods in resignation. "All right. What's your dare?"

"No whining, no pleading, no nothing. Just 'what's the dare'?" Tony shakes his head in mock dismay. "Man, you are _way_ too righteous for me. I'm actually feeling a little uncomfortable right now."

"Shut up, Stark," T'Challa groans. "Just tell me what sort of torture you have planned for me."

Tony smirks. "I'd love to, Lancelot, but I think I'll let you stew in your own juices for a while instead."

"You don't have a dare, do you?" Bruce asks with a long-suffering look.

"Nope!" Tony replies with a huge grin. "But I'm sure that I'll think of something by the end of the day."

The trio sets off down the hallway towards their next class, chatting amiably about their latest projects and ideas.

"I don't know, Tony," Bruce says, skepticism written all over his face, "I don't think that flying cars are even _practical_ , let alone possible. Everyone would need flight training in addition to a driver's license in order to operate them."

Tony shrugs. "Hey, I just make the stuff, I don't really deal with the minor details of what happens afterwards. Too much… _commitment_." He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"Sort of sounds like your love life," T'Challa quips, smirking as he dodges a pack of giggling teenage girls.

"You know it, Lancelot!" Suddenly, Tony spies a head of (h/c) hair weaving through the crowd towards them. "Speaking of love lives, I think your one true love is coming this way right now. Seriously, 'Challa, when are you going to ask her out?"

"Tony," Bruce warns.

Tony sighs. "What? The guy's slower than a corpse."

T'Challa rolls his eyes and promptly ignores them, opting instead to covertly watch as you pass by, chatting and laughing with your friend and briefly calling out to people as they pass by, the amusement and happiness never leaving your voice or vibrant (e/c) eyes for even a second.

He can still remember the first time he saw you in one of his classes, laughing with the Norwegian foreign exchange student, Thor. The guy's practically pure muscle and the size of a mountain, which causes most of the students at Shield High School to be intimidated by him. Hell, even _T'Challa_ is sometimes scared by the guy. Despite this, you were joking around with him without a problem, explaining different American customs and listening to his stories of life back at home. As every other girl in the class was glancing at T'Challa and Tony, the rich kids in school, you could have cared less. You never seemed to care about money or popularity or any other think that made other girls swoon. You were fascinating to T'Challa and as he noticed how funny and talented you were, the attraction only grew.

T'Challa is so focused on your raucous laughter echoing down the hallway that doesn't even realize that Tony's trying to get his attention until he's waving his hand in front of T'Challa's face.

T'Challa rears back and turns to look at his friends in annoyance. "What?"

"I _said_ ," Tony repeats, a wide grin plastered across his face, "I think I just found my dare."

T'Challa's annoyance instantly morphs into wariness as they step into their classroom.

"What is it?" he asks, although he has the dreadful feeling that he might already know what it is.

Tony's grin grows even wider, if that's possible, and once again takes on a distinct shit-eating quality.

"I dare _you_ , my love-struck, puppy-eyed friend, to ask (f/n) (l/n) out on a date." His eyes twinkle with impish mischief as he plops into his seat. Bruce slides into the desk behind him, smiling softly as he extracts his books from his backpack and prepares for class. T'Challa simply stands and stares at his friends in dismay.

"Shit."

You stroll down the hallway, chatting with your friend Natasha as you head toward your next class. Today's been great. You didn't bomb your algebra test, your friend Clint just lent you a bunch of comic books, you found the greatest fanfiction ever while covertly surfing the web on your phone in English class, and to top it all off, you have marching band practice tonight.

Yeah, you heard that right. _Marching band_.

You play the marimba in the pit of the one and only Shield Marching Avengers. For those uneducated in marching band vocabulary, the pit is the line of xylophones, vibraphones, drums, and other percussion instruments located on the front side line. You and your fellow percussionists don't ever march, but you're still considered a vital and integral part of the band, just as the color guard is, despite the fact that they don't play any instruments. Nat's part of said color guard and you've always been amazed by the resilience and strength that is demanded of them. You've seen Nat get clocked in the head by her own rifle (a heavy plank of wood shaped to look like its namesake and covered in electrical tape) in the middle of practice and keep right on marching as if nothing had happened.

"I see you play Overwatch," Nat comments, pointing to your Soldier 76 t-shirt as you idly make conversation. "How long have you been playing?"

You shrug. "A few months now. I think I'm getting pretty good." You grin at the redhead.

"Good. I was going to say, you'll have to be pretty good to beat me. Would it be okay if I came over on Saturday and we played a few rounds?" You know that she isn't bragging, simply stating a fact. Natasha is one of the most confident and sure people that you know.

You nod. "Sure! Swing by around noon. I'll bring the whoop-ass, you bring the snacks."

Nat chuckles, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Hey (f/n), Nat!" a voice calls from down the hall. "Are you coming to practice tonight?"

You turn to see your drum major, Steve Rodgers, and his boyfriend Bucky striding towards you, their hands loosely linked. Steve is carrying both of their books, which isn't hard while he's the most buff guy in school. Bucky's also in the band, and if Natasha is one of the most confident people you know, Bucky's definitely the most determined.

After all, you have to be pretty dedicated to learn how to play an instrument when you only have one arm.

Bucky lost his left arm and both his parents in a car accident when he was twelve. At the time, he had played saxophone and the loss of his musical ability had been a bad blow, mostly because Bucky uses music to deal with all the shit in his life. After years of therapy and depression, he finally took up one of the only instruments that he still had the ability to play: the trumpet.

It wasn't long after that that he joined the marching band. You'd be the first to admit that you had been skeptical when he joined, wondering how someone could march with only one arm, but Buck had blown you all away. The guy's a natural and seems to glide along the field, never loosing count and never missing a set.

He thrived in the band, making friends and carving out his own place in the band family, but every once in a while, you still see a flicker in his eyes, a sadness that will never completely leave, no matter how many friends there are to chase it away. That's why you were so happy to see him start dating Steve. The guy can lift anyone to their feet, even those as broken as Bucky. He's in good hands.

"Hey, lovebirds!" you call back, delighting in the light blush that spreads across your drum major's face. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

You turn back to Nat to ask her how far the color guard has gotten with their routine, only to find a mischievous look plastered across her face.

"What?" you ask. "Why are you giving me that look? You only use that look when you're about to play a prank on Clint."

Nat shakes her head. "I wish, but no. _T'Challa Udaku_ just passed us."

Your eyebrows knit in confusion. "Oookaaayyyy… And why has that set off your pranking face?"

Nat smirks. "Because he was staring right at you."

On the inside, your heart does a little jump in your chest, sending a thrill of electricity through your veins. One the outside, you smirk back, roll your eyes, and bid Nat farewell as you walk into your classroom. You slide into your seat and wait for the bell to signal the start of class, staring off into space as you recall the first time you saw T'Challa.

Before having math class with him, all you had heard about him was that he was hot, rich, and wicked smart. Practically every girl worshipped the ground he walked on and probably had shrines dedicated to him in their rooms.

With your limited data, you had assumed that he was a rich snob with a private tutor that did his homework for him, but that class changed everything. You learned that he was best friends with Bruce Banner, who was fairly low on the popularity chain, which ruled out the possibility of him being a snob. You learned that he was, in fact, a genius.

You also learned that he was incredibly, undeniably hot, but that's beside the point.

Despite being a super genius, he wasn't stuck up or high and mighty. Not at all. He never flaunted his brainpower, never seemed to look down on others. He never bragged and he always helped others without being asked. With his brain, money, and looks, he could have had the entire school in the palm of his hand, but he just… didn't.

He was fascinating.

The final bell rings out through the school, freeing the students from their classes and starting the daily exodus of kids heading for buses and parked cars.

You bob and weave through the hallways, dodging cliques of rough-housing guys and laughing girls as you fight against the flow, heading further into the building rather than towards the exit. After several minutes of almost being trampled, you finally reach the band room doors. Grabbing a palm-worn handle, you yank one of the doors open and step into a whole other (and better) kind of chaos.

Band kids are everywhere, assembling instruments, chatting, and simply goofing off. Some people are already starting to warm up. Their playing, combined with the conversations (and occasional yelling), makes for a very loud and welcoming environment. You grin as you make your way through the chaos, stepping over open instrument cases as you navigate towards your locker.

The walls of the band room are lined with cage-like lockers for instrument storage and the personal use of students. Some of them are large enough to stand in and move about without difficulty, so it isn't uncommon for someone to get locked inside as a practical joke. You've even seen people take naps in them. At the back of the room, there's a single door leading to your band director's small office. You don't see Mr. Coulson anywhere at the moment, so he's probably out making copies of some piece of music. In the center of the room are several rows of chairs and music stands, all facing the front, where a white board displays different reminders and bits of musical theory.

You finally reach your locker, and shove your backpack into it, relieved to be rid of the heavy weight. You don't have to put any instruments together and you have a few minutes until you need to move the pit equipment out to the practice field, so you collapse into a chair and simply observe your surroundings.

Across the room, Steve helps Bucky to oil the valves in his trumpet, blushing furiously when Bucky gives him a 'thank you' kiss.

Near the front of the room, Nat, Clint, Wanda, and the rest of the color guard examine the new equipment that the color guard instructor, Maria Hill, had just brought in. Wanda and Nat specialize in dance, so they aren't as excited as the rest of them, but Clint grins as he snatches up a rifle and does a quick toss, hastily replacing it when Maria fiercely scolds him for spinning in the band room.

A few chairs over from you, Wanda's brother Pietro examines some new sheet music, his brow furrowed in concentration as he brings his flute to his lips and flawlessly plays a long run of fast, quick 16th notes. The boy is probably the best and fastest flute player in the entire school.

Suddenly, you hear Thor calling for you from the doors, his voice booming out over the music and conversation.

"(f/n), my friend! There is someone named T'Challa here who wishes to speak with you!"

The entire band room freezes and turns to look at you as you stare at Thor in shock.

 _What the hell?_ you think as you slowly stand and walk past your grinning, gossiping band mates.

Thor shrugs when you give him a questioning look. You push through the doors to see T'Challa standing awkwardly a few feet down the hall. You can see his friends, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, leaning against the lockers a good ways behind him. Tony is smirking smugly at the two of you while Bruce just gives you a small, almost apologetic smile. T'Challa shifts slightly, drawing your attention back to him. You're still slightly confused as to why he's here and why he's acting so strangely, but you decide to go with it as you slip your hands into your pockets and try to ignore your heart as it flutters in your chest.

"What's up?" you ask awkwardly.

T'Challa shifts from foot to foot, his hands shoved into his pockets, and berates himself silently as he struggles for something to say. He's stood up to _Fury_ , for god's sake. Asking a girl out shouldn't be that hard in comparison.

"So…" he begins, searching frantically for a good introduction, "I had no idea that only band kids are allowed in the band room." He tilts his head, trying for a charming smile.

You chuckle, relaxing. "Yeah, sorry about that. Some kids broke a drum a few years ago when they went in there to skip class and Mr. Coulson doesn't want a repeat."

T'Challa gives an understanding nod and the awkward silence creeps in again. Finally, T'Challa just decides to take the dive.

"Listen, I was wondering if maybe… What I mean is…" He sighs in frustration and starts over. "Would you like to hang out on Friday?" He pinches his lips together in anticipation as he waits for you to be able to form a coherent sentence.

Holy shit. Did _T'Challa Udaku_ just ask you out? Your mouth hangs slightly open in shock as you try to wrap your mind around that thought.

You're jolted from your amazement as screaming, yelling, and a bunch of clapping erupts from inside the band room, which had been… uncharacteristically silent up until that point. T'Challa stares at the doors in mild fascination, confusion, and horror as you chuckle and shake your head with a mixture of annoyance and affection.

"They're going to be pestering me for weeks over this," you sigh as the hollering continues.

T'Challa chuckles lowly, the deep notes of amusement drawing your attention back to him. You tilt your head, considering his question for a moment before you grin.

"Sure, I'd love to hang out some time. Friday might not be too good, seeing as we have a football game then."

T'Challa nearly face palms at his own forgetfulness. He had known that you were in the marching band, but it had completely slipped his mind.

He grimaces apologetically. "God, I'm sorry! I completely forgot about that. Do you have any free time during the game?" he asks, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it of the embarrassment.

You nod. "We're in the stands during first, second, and fourth quarter and we play at halftime, but we do have third quarter off." Your hand comes up to whisk some hair out of your face, shifting your weight to your other foot. "I won't have that much time to hang out and I'm busy the rest of the weekend." You shrug helplessly. "We have a marching band competition on Saturday and I have family stuff on Sunday."

He smiles gently. "That's okay. I'll see you on Friday." You smile back and nod, responding with a small "See you then." Before turning back to the band room doors, which have once again fallen silent. You warily pull one of the doors open and are immediately met by raucous applause and cheering. You hear T'Challa laugh as the door swings closed behind you. You're grabbed by Clint and Nat and immediately pestered for information while Thor claps you on the back and congratulates you. The rest of the band goes back to getting ready for practice.

"Did you say yes?" Clint asks. "I mean, any other girl and I wouldn't even have to ask, but it is _you_ that we're talking about. Who am I kidding, of _course_ you said yes. I'm heterosexual and _taken_ and I would probably sleep with the guy if he asked me to." He ducks, laughing as he fails to dodge the punch that Nat aims at his arm.

You roll your eyes. "Just because I don't worship the ground he walks on doesn't mean I'm blind, Barton. Why _wouldn't_ I say yes? Besides, even if it doesn't work out," a malicious grin spreads across your face, "it'll still make almost every other girl in the entire school, and more than a few boys, _hella_ jealous."

The corners of Nat's lips turn upwards in pride as the others burst out laughing.

"That's my girl."

It's Friday night and T'Challa's getting more and more annoyed by the second as he glares at the crowd around him.

"It's okay, T'Challa," Bruce says from his left in an attempt to calm him. "It's just a football game."

"Not to _her_ , it probably isn't," he fires back, ignoring Tony as he takes the seat to his right, his arms laden with snacks and his eyes flitting between the two in curiosity. "I mean, could they at least _try_ to be more respectful of the band?"

Tony glances down to the field below them, where the band is filing onto the field, then at the other people seated in the bleachers, who show no sign of shutting up as they chat with their friends and wait for the game to resume, and immediately grasps the source of T'Challa's irate mood.

He shrugs, passing a container of nachos to T'Challa ("Good choice.") and a salad to Bruce ("Yuck."). "Ignorant assholes will be ignorant assholes. Doesn't mean we can't enjoy the show. They definitely showed how loud they can be when they want to. I mean, did you hear them play "Shake it Off" a few minutes ago? Ha! Rhetorical question! Of course you did!"

T'Challa sighs and turns his attention back to the field as the last color guard member runs to her spot on the field ( _How can anyone be that graceful when they're booking it to a spot that's 30 yards away?_ ) and bows her head, blending in with the rest of the band as they await the announcer's signal to start.

"Presenting their 2016 show, The Fight for Freedom, Shield High School is proud to present… the Marching Avengers!"

The crowd applauds and a few people (read: band parents) cheer. The drum major salutes the crowd from his position on the podium in front of the pit, then turns to his band and calls them to attention.

"Hut!" they band yells in perfect synchronization, their feet snapping together and their heads and instruments coming up to stare at the crowd, their faces glowing with pride and determination.

The yell… no, the _war cry_ makes T'Challa, Bruce, and Tony jump in their seats, their eyes wide as the drum major hold his hands up in a pregnant pause before bringing them down and beginning to conduct.

From the very first note, you feel as if there's nothing in the world that you can't do. Your mallets fly over the marimba in front of you and the marching bass and snare drums behind you beat in time to your heart. An almost maniacal grin spreads over your face and you feel like laughing as the music pours over you, lifting you up and making you feel small at the same time, swirling around you like thunder clouds with bolts of lightning flashing inches above your head.

There really isn't any other feeling like being in the eye of the storm.

T'Challa watches in awe as the entire band steps off as one, blasting a patriotic march as they flow across the field, sometimes in flexible, rolling curves, sometimes in hard, straight lines. The music paints such a clear picture that he can almost _see_ the soldiers marching off to war, the air force flying high above them. The brass stands in a group on the left side of the field, their feet planted firmly and their instruments tilted towards the sky as they shoot the melody straight into the stands, slamming it into their listeners' chests. The flutes fly over them, making T'Challa feel lighter than air.

The color guard leaps and dances across the field, their flags flying high into the atmosphere, their rifles hitting their hands with audible snaps, their sabers carving the air with pinpoint precision. They masterfully manipulate their equipment, sending color rippling across their field with a grace that shouldn't match the strict nature of the march, but somehow manages to anyway.

T'Challa glances down at the pit, where you, Thor, and five other percussionists are nodding along to the beat as you provide a solid base for the music behind them, shaping it and guiding it. His breath catches in his throat as you glance up at the drum major, revealing the most excited, happy grin that T'Challa has ever seen on a person. He swears he even sees you laugh as you play what looks like a particularly complicated riff.

You're in your element.

He feels as if he wants to watch you forever just to see that smile again, but his eyes are irresistibly drawn to the rest of the band as they finish their song, the final note punching a hole in the ambient noise of the stadium. The drum major pauses, raising his hands in preparation, but before he can begin to conduct, tank noises, artillery fire, and the whir of helicopters bursts from the speakers in front of the pit. The entire band, the pit and drum major included, ducks and looks around, their expressions so terrified that it takes T'Challa a second to realize that it's an act. The band and color guard scatter across the field, disorganized, terrified and chaotic for a few seconds before freezing, somehow forming a perfect grid in the middle of the field, their backs ramrod straight as they slowly come to attention, the horrific noises fading out.

The drum major begins to conduct for real now and a single trumpet begins to play "Amazing Grace", the notes as clear as light. The grid of musicians parts like the red sea, leaving the single trumpet in the middle of the field as he plays… with one hand?

"He only has one arm," Bruce whispers, his eyes wide. Sure enough, the left sleeve of the man's uniform is rolled up and pinned to his side, leaving him with only his right to play his instrument.

"Yeah, that's James Barnes," Tony murmurs from T'Challa's other side. "He lost his arm in a car accident a few years ago."

T'Challa shushes them both, not wanting to miss a single note. The guy is _good_. The amount of emotion in his music shouldn't even be possible and the heartache, sadness, and loss is almost tangible in the swooping notes. The rest of the band slowly joins in, weaving harmonies and counter melodies into a complicated tapestry of sound and beauty. The last note rings out and T'Challa can hear the other team's marching band screaming and hollering, practically jumping up and down in their seats in appreciation. Tony cheers along with them, pumping his fist in the air.

The third movement is just as incredible, depicting struggle and determination before the finale of triumph. As they finish their final song, the entire band snaps to attention, saluting the crowd as every single spectator that was kind enough to listen jumps to their feet, screaming and hollering and clapping their hands raw as the band marches off the field to the beat of their cadence, their chests heaving from exertion and their heads held high while the band parents quickly wheel the pit equipment off the field.

T'Challa, Tony, and Bruce exit the stands and quickly walk over to where the band has gathered in a huddle around their drum major, listening as their band director, a man with playful eyes and a nice suit, gives a speech.

"You guys did well today! Clarinets and flutes, that was much better than last week. There were still some inconsistencies between the pit and the winds, but we'll work on cleaning that next week. Good work with that solo, James! The audience was _this close_ throwing babies." Everyone laughs and grins as the director nods, making a sort of "go on" gesture with a fond smile.

James turns towards the center of the huddle, raising his trumpet into the air as he grins at the drum major.

"Let's put him down!"

T'Challa, Tony, and Bruce watch in confusion as the drum major bends down and everyone cheers, placing their hands on top of his back. There's about forty people in the band, so half the people have to settle for placing their hands on the shoulders of the people in front of them. The drumline, who stand at the very edge of the group, are forced to turn sideways in order to not hit anyone with their drums as they reach into the huddle with their drum sticks. Color guard members poise on their toes on the outskirts, smushing their sweaty hands onto the heads of their band friends.

You meet Bucky's eyes, grinning as he peers around, waiting for at least a semblance of quiet. When he's satisfied that everyone's attention is on him, he sucks in a deep breath, his spine straightening and his eyes filling with pride.

"Who are we?" he bellows, his voice echoing throughout the stadium and slamming into you with an almost palpable force as he starts the chant.

"Avengers!" the entire band yells back, twice as loud.

"What time is it?"

You see T'Challa, Tony, and Bruce out of the corner of your eye, grinning as they watch from a ways outside the circle.

"Avenging time!" you bellow, grinning.

"What time is it?"

"AVENGING TIME!"

Everyone raises their fists into the air, hollering as Steve rises from his hunched over position, raising his fist as well and grinning like a mad man. Everyone cheers, and you see Clint jump into Nat's awaiting arms, despite her annoyed look. The rest of the band trickles back to the stands to grab their money for the snack stand while you stroll over to the nearby trio. You return T'Challa's smile as you approach, but you can't help but notice the unease swirling in the back of your mind like a far-off storm cloud, warning you of impending rain. What if this is all just a prank, a ruse? What if he's just leading you on, promising you sunshine while planning for thunderstorms? You quickly shove these thoughts to the side, electing to ignore them as you reach T'Challa and the others.

"Hey," you greet, grinning at them as Tony smirks and Bruce waves timidly from a little ways behind T'Challa. "Geez, I think I just lost half of my hearing," you chuckle as you rub your ear.

T'Challa laughs as he offers you his arm, his face splitting into a wide grin. You smile back, accepting the offer and pointedly ignoring Tony as he rolls his eyes dramatically.

You begin to lead them back towards the stands where the band had been sitting for the first and second quarters, chatting, playing stand tunes, and bursting into the fight song whenever your team scored a touchdown.

"I just have to grab my wallet and take off my top," you explain as you climb the stairs, ignoring Tony's childish snickers. "I'll be right back!"

You quickly take off the top of your uniform, which hides black overalls and your band shirt, and carefully fold it before slipping on your sweatshirt that you had left folded on your seat. After a quick examination of the big front pocket to be sure that you wallet is still safely tucked away, you head back to the base of the bleachers. As you link your arm with T'Challa's, the storm cloud lets out a small rumble of unease, but you wave it away and focus instead on the food that you're about to buy.

Five minutes later, Tony and Bruce have decided to go on a walk around the stadium and, as Tony put it, "leave the love birds alone." Through some small holy miracle you've managed to find a picnic table that isn't stuffed with band kids and are in the process of laughing so hard that you feel as if you're about to eject your left lung. You're pretty sure that you lost the right one about 2 minutes ago.

T'Challa, who's sitting next to you, is shaking with laughter as well, but is attempting (read: failing) to hold it back in favor of continuing the story that has brought you to tears.

"So now this robot will _not_ stop spraying the fire extinguisher at Tony. Bruce is on the floor laughing the hardest I've ever seen him laugh, practically rolling around on the floor, and Tony _finally_ gets the thing to stop by threatening to sell it for scrap metal!" He chuckles, wiping his eyes. "Tony was completely covered in the stuff! He was so angry. His eye was twitching so horribly that I was convinced that it was going to fall right out of his head!"

"Oh my god…" you mutter, still chuckling and breathing evenly in an attempt to calm yourself down. "You would think one of the smartest guys in school would be able to make an AI that at least listens to him," you say, letting out another small laugh.

T'Challa chuckles, glancing sideways and fixing you with a small, kind smile that causes you to grin and look down at your half-eaten hotdog as butterflies start ricocheting around your stomach.

Those butterflies must have kicked up some wind, because the next thing you know, the storm clouds have swirled back into your head, raining down and dispersing the cheerful insects until all you feel is empty dread. You pick grimly at your food. T'Challa immediately notices your sudden shift in mood.

"Is everything okay, _?" he asks, his eyes full of concern.

You straighten and try for a smile, nodding. "Yeah, I'm good. What happened after that? Did Tony really sell him for scraps?" you ask, plastering a wide grin to your face.

T'Challa gives you a shrewd but not unkind look, seeing right through your display. "No, he didn't. And no, you're not. What's wrong?" His gaze softens slightly as he waits for your reply.

You're grin fades and you morosely push your food away, no longer hungry. You fold your hands in your lap and worry your bottom lip with your teeth, trying to find a way to ask the question that had been bothering you all night. T'Challa simply watches you patiently, waiting for your explanation.

"Why me?" you finally ask, knitting your eyebrows as you peer at him. "Out of every girl in the entire school, why did you pick the only one who…" You attempt to figure out how to phrase this lightly, but decide that you can't sugar coat it, "who doesn't fawn over you?" You grimace apologetically.

T'Challa chuckles, his eyes crinkling in amusement as he gestures towards you. "There's your answer. You _don't_."

You frown, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You don't fawn over me like everyone else. When other people in this school look at me, all they see is popularity, wealth, and a high IQ. When people start seeing what a person has rather than the person itself, they tend to change themselves, make themselves fake. As far as I can see, you've never done that with anyone. You never dilute yourself in order to suit the comfort of other people. You are _you_ 24/7. You are, frankly, the most interesting person that I have ever met." He smiles at you kindly and you can't help but grin back as the clouds evaporate from your mind, allowing the sun to shine through and encourage the evicted butterflies to once again take up residence in your stomach. You returns T'Challa's smile.

An explosive curse escapes you lips as you glance at the clock on the scoreboard and realize that you have less than a minute until you have to be back in the stands. T'Challa raises an eyebrow in amusement at your colorful language.

"I am so sorry, I have to go!" you exclaim as you collect your trash and uneaten food and hastily stand. "I'll see you on Monday." You turn and are about to hurry back into the stands when T'Challa's hand on your arm gently stops your momentum. You turn back and look at him questioningly. He simply smiles, leaning over to press his lips to your cheek before giving you a gentle push towards the stands.

"See you on Monday," he replies, his eyes dancing with amusement.

 **(A/N: Also, all of you HAVE to check out Ohio State's superhero halftime show! If you just search "Ohio State superhero half time" on Youtube, it should be one of the first couple options. It isn't all marvel characters, but it's absolutely AMAZING!)**


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